“Long story.” Managing a smile, he greeted Ivan. “Good to see you, sir.”
“No ‘sirs’ here. Just Ivan. And this is my wife, Addie.”
When Kincaid reached out to her, she waved his hand away. “Never mind that. Let’s get you inside.”
They led him into the house and introduced him to the dogs, who sniffed at him with more than usual doggy interest. He realized he must smell like blood—and God knew what else he had sat or crawled in on the side of the road.
“Let’s get you a drink,” said Ivan. “You look like you could use one. Whisky?”
“Yes, please. But, first, could I have a wash?” Kincaid turned to Gemma. “Where’s Char?”
“Asleep, upstairs. But I’ll just go make sure the dogs didn’t wake her. Then, I want to know exactly what happened to you.”
Kincaid scrubbed as well as his sore hand would allow, then dried his hands gingerly on the Talbots’ fine linen bathroom towel. Then, he examined his forehead and cheek in the mirror, dabbing at the remaining dried blood with a wad of tissue from the toilet roll. Still, even tidied, he was not a pretty sight. No wonder Gemma had looked horrified. His jacket had a rip in the right shoulder but he had nothing to change into—his overnight bag, he realized, was still in his car. His knee was stinging, too, but he didn’t feel like rolling up his trouser leg to check the damage.
The small downstairs loo was warm, and for a moment he was tempted to sink down on the toilet lid and close his eyes, just for a bit . . .
He shook himself and splashed a little water on the undamaged parts of his face. His hand throbbed—he would have to get some ice on it. By the time Gemma rapped on the door and said, “Are you okay, love?” he was as presentable as he was going to get. Coming out into the kitchen, he gave her a one-sided hug and rested his cheek against her hair for just an instant, but she pulled away so that she could look at him. She touched her fingers lightly to his cheek, then asked, “Where else are you hurt? And how badly?”
“I’m fine, really. Just banged up a bit.”
Lady Addie had made him a plate of sandwiches. As she urged him into the sitting room, she said, “Whatever happened to you, I think you won’t have eaten.” He took the plate willingly, and he didn’t object when Ivan waved him into the chair nearest the fire and handed him a crystal tumbler with a finger’s worth of whisky. He wondered if he should drink it, as odd as he felt, but the first sip warmed him to his toes and he felt his muscles ease.
“The car,” said Gemma. “What happened to the car? Did you—”
Ivan held up a hand. “Let the man eat, lass. Whatever it is, I imagine it will keep a few more minutes.”
Kincaid bit into a ham and tomato sandwich. Suddenly, he was ravenous. As murmured conversation went on round him, he finished the ham, and then the cheese and pickle. Down-to-earth food, and delicious, the sort of thing he’d grown up on in Cheshire. When he’d finished, he set the plate aside and cradled the whisky in his left hand. The big dog, the deerhound, came over to him and settled against his feet with a sigh.
Melody smiled at him. “You’re well and truly accepted now, if Mac likes you. He doesn’t take to everyone like that.”
“It’s probably the sandwiches,” Kincaid said, trying for humor. Ivan was watching him now, ready to hear his story, his big-boned face intent. The journalist was never far from the surface.
Kincaid took another sip of the whisky, then looked at Gemma as he said, “The car. It’s . . . it’s totaled, I think. There was a crash.”
As he told them what had happened, Gemma came and sat beside him, her hand on his uninjured knee. She’d gone pale, the light dusting of freckles across her nose visible even in the lamplight. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You could have been killed.”
Ivan was frowning. “That’s a well-marked junction. Anyone local would know it. You say they identified the woman who was driving?”
“The ambulance medic who stopped to help—the one who gave me a lift here—recognized her. She said her name was Nell Greene.”
Addie Talbot looked shocked. “Nell? But that’s—” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Was she certain?”
“She said she knew her from work, that Nell Greene had been an administrator at the hospital.”
“Yes, she was. She took early retirement and moved to Lower Slaughter from Cheltenham. She’d inherited a cottage from her aunt. It’s just on the west side of the village.” Still frowning, Addie continued, “It seems so unlikely that Nell would do something like that. I’d have said she was a careful person. Very responsible. In fact, she was one of my volunteer helpers for tomorrow.”
“You say there was a passenger, a man?” asked Ivan.
Kincaid nodded. He hadn’t mentioned the ambulance crew’s speculation that the man had been dead before the crash. Nor had he told them that he’d been with Nell Greene in her last few minutes.
“Any identification?”
“Not that I heard. Tracey—the medic who stopped—didn’t recognize him.”
“Did Nell Greene have any family that need to be notified?” Melody asked.
“I suppose there’s an ex somewhere—a doctor, I think,” said Addie. “No children that I know of.” Then her eyes widened. “The dog. Oh, dear. Someone will have to see to the dog. She’ll be alone in the house.”
“She?” asked Gemma.
“Yes, she’s called Bella. A young border collie bitch. Training her was Nell’s retirement project.” For the first time, Addie’s voice wobbled a little. “I think she was lonely, poor woman.”
“Is there anyone who has access to the cottage?” asked Melody, as if her mother’s show of emotion had in turn made her brisk.
Addie thought for a moment. “Mark Cain might. He’s her nearest neighbor. And Bella was one of his puppies—he breeds working collies. I think he was helping Nell with the dog’s training. I’m sure he’ll take Bella until something is sorted. I’ll ring him straightaway.”
Mark Cain stood with his mobile phone in his hand, staring at the ended call in shock. Nell, dead? How was that possible? He’d just seen her that afternoon. She and Bella had gone up the field with him and the dogs, Bella watching Sprig and Wally work the sheep. Nell had told him she meant to go to the pub for dinner, and she’d been excited about helping with tomorrow’s lunch at the Talbots’.
He’d told Nell he might stop in the Lamb for a drink himself, but then at teatime he’d had a text from Viv telling him not to come to the pub. What the hell had that been about? He’d meant to text her now that the dinner service would be winding down—that was a lesson he’d learned quickly, not to interrupt the chef during the meal rush. But now, with this . . . He rubbed his face, feeling the end-of-day stubble. Good thing he hadn’t poured his usual evening nightcap—he needed a clear head.
Nell . . . All Addie had said was that she’d been killed in an accident near the Bourton junction. But what the hell was Nell doing driving that way?
“Yes,” he’d told Addie, Nell had given him a key, and he was happy to help out in any way possible.
The dogs were prancing round him now, thinking it was time to go out for the last constitutional of the evening, but he whistled them to their beds by the kitchen range. “Just wait, you two monkeys. You’re going to have some company in a bit.”
Poor Bella. She was quite bonded to Nell, who adored her. Had adored her, he corrected himself. She’d a talent for the sheep, Bella, and there’d been times he’d wished he’d kept her for himself. But no one could have given a dog more love and care than Nell had done.
Well, for now, at least, Bella would come home with him. But first, he was going to stop by the pub and find out what the hell was up with Viv Holland.
From the far side of the pub car park, Ibby Azoulay saw Mark Cain pass the pub’s main door and head round through the garden towards the kitchen. A regular ninja, the gentleman farmer, thought Ibby. Plonker. If Viv thought that nobody knew what was going on wit
h her and Cain, she was just plain stupid. “Stupid,” he muttered, liking the sound of it. “Stupid and bloody blind.”
Ibby huddled into his jacket. The body heat he’d built up in the kitchen was dissipating in the sharp night air and he was glad he hadn’t far to walk. But he stood in the shadows a moment longer, curious to see if Viv tossed Cain out on his ear. That was a discussion he’d like to have heard, if it had to do with Fergus O’Reilly.
Of course, if that bastard O’Reilly really was back in the picture, then he, Ibby, was well out of it. Bugger. He spat, then reached in his jacket pocket for his hidden packet of cigarettes. Stepping farther back into the passage that led from the car park to the lane behind the pub yard, he lit his first smoke of the day. He didn’t dare smoke in the room he let from Bea Abbott—he didn’t dare smoke anywhere that would leave a lingering odor on his clothes. Damn Viv and her rules. His palate was just fine, thank you very much, ciggies or no. He’d always been as good a cook as Viv. Better than Fergus, maybe . . . although there had been times in the glory days when Fergus had been pure magic in the kitchen. They’d all been a little in love with him.
And Fergus had used them for it, the son of a bitch.
Ibby took a last hard drag and threw the fag end into the hedge.
What the hell was Fergus O’Reilly doing, turning up here out of the blue? Offering Viv fame and fortune? That was rich, coming from him. He only hoped Viv had enough sense to turn it down. Because as much as Ibby groused about Viv’s rules, and this dead-end, poky village, it was a good gig and he knew it. Their food was simple but top quality, and they’d begun to earn a reputation that was well deserved. The lunch tomorrow would definitely kick things up a notch, assuming they could pull it off.
And they would. Ibby would make sure of it. He’d worked in too many shithole kitchens since their London days, and been kicked out of more than a few of them. He didn’t intend to let anything put him back there—especially bloody Fergus O’Reilly.
Chapter Four
Viv lay in the dark, watching the digital display on the clock. Four fifty-eight . . . four fifty-nine . . . When the numbers ticked over to five, she reached out from under the duvet and punched the alarm off. There was no point in staying in bed worrying when she could be up and making a start on the morning.
Had she slept at all? She’d drifted in and out of anxious dreams, dogged by a fear of being unprepared and by a vague sense of menace. Twice she’d got up to check on Grace, only to find her sleeping peacefully, her old stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest as if she were a toddler.
They’d argued when Viv had come in from the pub last night. Grace had been sullen, watching telly past her bedtime—and without her glasses, which Viv knew would give her a headache—and had refused to acknowledge her mother until Viv had snapped at her and switched off the television.
“Why did you say I couldn’t talk to Fergus?” Grace had shouted at her then, tears starting. “He was nice. He asked about school, and about my bike.”
“I’ve told you not to talk to—”
“Yeah, you’re always telling me. But he wasn’t a stranger. He knew you—”
“Just because I know him doesn’t mean he’s nice.” Viv sat beside her on the sofa, ignoring Grace’s flinch away from her. “Look, love, it’s a long story and I’ll tell you sometime, but not tonight. I just want you to be careful, okay? Not everybody is what they seem.”
In Grace she saw her own reckless streak, the same one that had sent her off to work in a London kitchen at seventeen, as green as any country girl straight off the hay wagon. A little distrust would have seen her in good stead.
And Fergus, dear God. Why had she even introduced him to Grace? After disappearing mysteriously for a few hours after he’d scared her out of her wits that morning, he’d come back in the afternoon, all Irish blarney, trying to coax Viv into some harebrained new scheme. She’d been standing in the yard arguing with him when Grace got home from school. Viv hadn’t wanted to make a scene in front of Grace, and she’d had to get back to prepping for the dinner service, so she’d left them together. What had she been thinking?
That Fergus O’Reilly would have undergone some magical transformation in the years since she’d walked out on him and his bloody restaurant? That he suddenly had her best interests at heart?
Bollocks.
When she’d come to her senses, Fergus had been gone and Grace had wandered into the kitchen looking suspiciously smitten. Viv had told her not to speak to him again and hoped that would be the end of it.
But Viv should have known she hadn’t seen the last of Fergus. At the start of dinner service, he’d walked into the pub—her pub!—and picked his way through her menu as if he were a Michelin judge, then left the food barely tasted on the plates he’d sent back to the kitchen. By the time he’d strolled into the back without so much as a by-your-leave, she’d been ready to take his head off. And then he’d caused a scene that she was going to have a hard time explaining to anyone.
Bastard.
Well, she wasn’t going to let him ruin this day. Fergus O’Reilly had caused enough damage in her life. She threw off the duvet, pulled on her whites, and headed for the pub.
Kincaid woke to the sound of running water. Gemma in the shower, he thought, fuzzily, then opened his eyes and squinted against light that seemed much too bright for their bedroom. Moving, he gasped as pain shot through his ribs, bringing recollection with it.
Not at home. He was in the guest room at the Talbots’. He’d wrecked his car. His head ached and his right hand throbbed. Gingerly, he lifted his swollen fingers and touched the knot on his forehead.
Gemma came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She’d pulled up her coppery hair in a clip but escaping tendrils curled from the steam. “You’re awake,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed. “I was going to let you sleep. How are you feeling?”
Wincing, Kincaid pulled himself into a sitting position. “Sore.”
“And here I was thinking you looked a bit rakish.” Gemma raised an eyebrow and patted his arm, letting her towel slip a few inches.
“I’ll show you rakish,” he said, reaching out to touch the exposed curve of her breast. Both his ribs and his hand protested. “Ow.” He grimaced and sat back. “I’m bloody useless today.”
Gemma eyed him critically. “You should take it easy.”
He started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “I’ve got to make a statement. And I’ve got to see about the Astra.”
“I’ll drive you. I’m sure I can borrow Melody’s car. And you need to have that cut looked at.”
“I’ll be fine,” Kincaid said, without much conviction. “And what about Doug and the boys?” He’d meant to collect them in his car.
“I’m sure we can work out something. I suspect they have taxis even in the country.” Gemma leaned over and kissed him very gently on the unbruised side of his forehead. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You moaned and mumbled a good bit in your sleep last night.”
“Did I?” Some of the dreams came back to him now, a confusion of flashing lights and the smell of blood. He’d told Gemma, when they were alone in their room last night, about the medics saying the passenger in the other car was dead before the impact. But he had not told her about Nell Greene’s last few moments, and he found he still couldn’t quite bring himself to talk about it. “Where’s Char, then?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“Downstairs. Helping.” Gemma rolled her eyes and stood up. “And I had better get down there and rescue Melody.”
“Nonsense,” said Ivan, when Gemma proposed at breakfast that she should borrow Melody’s little Renault to take Kincaid to the recovery yard and then to give his statement at the Cheltenham police station.
Startled, Kincaid looked at him as Melody said, “Dad—”
“I’ll take the lad myself,” Ivan went on before Melody could finish her protest. “Your mother needs all the help she can get this mo
rning, and I am about as useful as the proverbial bull in the china shop.”
Given that Ivan had made them a proper fried breakfast with all the aplomb of an accomplished cook, Kincaid suspected Ivan could turn a deft hand to just about anything. He didn’t doubt, however, that Addie needed help. She’d greeted them when they came down, then gone out to oversee the setting up of the hired tables in the garden, taking a wide-eyed Charlotte with her. When he’d asked if she wasn’t joining them for breakfast, Ivan had growled, “Yogurt and berries, that’s all she’ll eat,” with a look of disgust. Addie’s answering smile told him that this was a familiar argument.
“Sir,” he said, then, at Ivan’s glare, corrected himself. “Ivan. If Gemma’s needed here, I’m sure I can get a taxi.” Managing to shower, shave, and dress had convinced him he shouldn’t attempt to drive, especially not a borrowed car. Not only was his right hand swollen and too tender to use, he felt surprisingly shaky and fuzzy-headed.
“Nonsense,” Ivan repeated firmly. “It would cost you a fortune. Besides, I know a chap or two.”
“But what about the boys?” Kincaid asked.
“I’ll run into Moreton for Doug and the boys,” said Melody. “Piece of cake.”
Kincaid sat back, lifting his coffee cup in a left-handed salute. “You’re a bossy lot, you Talbots.”
Gemma shot Melody a grin. “I could have told you that.”
The heady scent of caramel filled the quiet pub kitchen. Viv stood back, surveying her work with satisfaction.
The small glass jars filled with a spread made from local smoked trout were packed into a cool box. Earlier in the week, Grace had helped her make the labels for the jars, as well as for the two puddings which she would serve the same way. The guests would be encouraged to take home any that were left, as well as the larger jars of pickled vegetables. She’d fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots verts and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as traditional kimchee—a concession to the bland English palate—but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans.
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